Reunion
by Everyone Everywhere
Summary: Johnlock Reunion Story. Sweet and adorable. All fluff. No smut. Written by Lazarus-James and Ravingredhead.


_**I (heart) **__** JW. We have brutal bum sex every night. - SH**_

_**Yeah, sounds about right.**_

_Who has my phone? -SH_

_**Oh, you're so adorable, Sherly.**_

_Shut up. Who is this? John's phone doesn't have the number registered. -SH_

_**Really, I expected better of you. Now, just **_**who**_** do you think could've taken your own phone right from under your own nose?**_

_John comes to mind, but even he isn't stupid enough to leave _that_ kind of message. I mean, a heart? Really? ... Oh. -SH_

_**Did you forget me already? But we were having sooo much fun.**_

_I didn't think I'd have to after a gun to the mouth. It's rare that people survive blowing their brains out. -SH_

_**And it's rare that people survive jumping off buildings, but here we are, such brilliant examples of rarity, are we not, darling?**_

_I suppose you are the only person who has ever managed to match my own brilliance, so you could say that, yes. But what are you doing sending that kind of message to John? He doesn't know I'm alive. -SH_

_**Oh, I have my little games, Sherly. It's fun to torment him. Even if he knows they're lies.**_

_Well, he's not home and his phone is in my hand right now. So your message of today was pretty much pointless. -SH_

_**Ahh, well. He'll notice the disappearance of the phone. And he'll question either his sanity or your potential existence, so either way, Sherly, I do win in the end. Besides, my dear consulting detective, how have you been, hmmm?**_

_Here and there. Mostly there, since your network has decided to suddenly spread all over the place. Tedious, but challenging. And obviously I do keep an eye on John every once in a while. And I'm going to need my phone back soon. -SH_

_**You know... you're beginning to bore me, Sherly. You're no fuuuun anymore. Should I liven the game then, hmmm?**_

_I'm only "boring" when I don't have my damn phone, Jim. It's been two days already. -SH_

_**Oho, you called me Jim, darling. I like that. And what's so important about your phone, Sherly? You can get so many others just like it.**_

_It has contact information that I don't feel like retrieving as a dead man. Much less annoying. Why did you take it anyway? I'm still trying to work that out... -SH_

_**You know... you're being awfully compliant today, Sherly. And your passiveness is... rather dull. I'm almost tempted to kill your pet.**_

_You wouldn't dare. He's done nothing. -SH_

_**And you're still doing nothing. You're hardly even a challenge anymore.**_

_You underestimate me. I ran out of the apartment ten minutes ago. -SH_

_**Does it sound like I care where you are, Sherly? I'm going to give Sebby the go ahead if you don't do something interesting**__._

_It's been a while since I've had to do anything interesting. Remotely interesting. It's as if you're expecting something phenomenal. -SH_

_**You're Sherlock Holmes, dear. I expect the world, where you're concerned.**_

_And yet the only thing you've settled for is threatening to snipe John. How dull. -SH_

_**Ahh, but John is your world, Sherly. Sad, but true. What would happen if I destroyed it, hmmm? Would you come play with me then?**_

_I never stopped. But leave John out of this. Even if he's still not aware that he's a target, the knowledge of both of us being alive will surely make his mind explode. So either way, he's a lost case. -SH_

_**I could leave John out of this as much as you could. But you haven't, so I'm not going to. Follow by example they say. And Sherly, darling, you don't play with me enough anymore. The world is my playground and you're my only play-mate, dear. And I get soooo bored.**_

_Oh Jim. I only just found out you were alive today. How was I supposed to know you missed me this badly? -SH_

_**We're the only ones who understand each other, Sherly. It was an assumed fact that you'd know I'd need you to make my life fun again. Or maybe you aren't as smart as I thought, darling.**_

_You _did_ call me "ordinary" last time we met, so I assumed you were already bored enough. And then you shot yourself in the head. Not much I could've done about that. -SH_

_**Well. I knew you were alive. The least you could've done was think about poor little old Jimmy. But you're very selfish, aren't you. Maybe if I get rid of your pet you'll pay more attention to me.**_

_No. -SH_

_**Awww, you're nooo fun, Sherly.**_

_I should try and track my phone. That'd be an interesting reunion. -SH_

_**I'm ready for you, honey. ;)**_

_Fine. Just a couple of minutes should do it... -SH_

_**Have fun, darling. 3**_

_..._

_**So, where am I, hmmm?**_

_Oh come now. Really, Jim? Of all places, you choose the same spot. I expected more of you. -SH_

_**Oh, you know me, darling. I love to be what you don't expect.**_

_But this seems so sentimental of you. Like lovers reuniting where they either first or last met. Whatever. I'm coming up. -SH_

_**I'll be waiting, Sherly. As I always am.**_

_My phone. Drop it. -SH_

Moriarty's fingers dangle over the edge of the building, a smile on his face, "Drop it, you say? My pleasure, darling."

The phone slips from his fingers, plummeting to its destruction, "Oops, clumsy me."

Sherlock freezes in place, his hand automatically clenching around John's phone. He tries to keep his calm facade, though, and approaches Moriarty, hands behind his back. "You didn't have to be so literal about it, you know."

"But I'm all about my word, Sherly," Moriarty nods at Sherlock to take a seat. There are only two. It's obvious he has been planning this for some time, "Please, join me."

Cocking an eyebrow at Moriarty, Sherlock reluctantly sits down, after firmly examining the seat of course. "Chairs on a rooftop. Your effort astounds me."

"I put in everything I can when you're involved, Sherly," Moriarty bows shallowly at Sherlock and takes his seat, leaning back into it with obvious relish, "Hand-picked these. Paid real money this time too. Nothing but the best for you, darling."

"Obviously." Sherlock glares at Moriarty for a second (tired; back strained, been waiting a while up here - perhaps another reason, but unimportant; hair and stubble grown out - been neglecting his appearance so as to blend in better), and then huffs. "So. The game is still on."

"Actually, no, rather this is the end, Sherly, my dear. I've really only come here for one reason. You could probably guess it, since you're the only one who can," Moriarty smirks, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring very closely at the world's only consulting detective; taking in every nuance of the man.

"Since your last plan failed, you're resorting to replaying it for the sole reason of closure." Moriarty's eyes sting. They actually sting.

"Close, but no cigar, darling. This is it, Sherly. Surely, you understand that, at least?" Jim blinks once, silently urging the man in front of him to finally understand, but he knows it is a moot point.

Sherlock squints, trying desperately to penetrate those stinging eyes with his own gaze. Moriarty is proving to be as much an unreadable blank wall as The Woman was. "I have a vague idea of what will happen, but surely you want to elaborate. Fellow, show-off."

"No, I really don't, for once, darling," Moriarty falls silence and he knows he will never get the only man equal to him to understand, "I told you before, Sherly-dear, I'm tempted to kill your pet. But who said I was talking about John then?" He picks up a glass by his chair, full of clear liquid, water it appears. He smiles at Sherlock, "Bottoms up, darling."

And then he drains the entire cup.

Sherlock jerks in his seat, almost asking what the hell it is - knowing Moriarty, it can't be this simple. "What are you..." he starts, frowning. Moriarty has always referred to John as his "pet". What on earth is his angle?

"I know what you're thinking, Sherly. What could I possibly mean? It's not that complicated, really. Do _try_ to use that brain of yours," Moriarty drawls, letting the cup slip from his fingers, the glass shattering into pieces as it crashes into the ground.

"You can't possibly have done what I think you did. Even for you, wouldn't that be too much of an easy way out?" He eyes the shatters on the ground. "And you should really stop doing that..."

"An easy way out? Why I never, Sherly. This is perhaps the hardest way I could've ever thought of. I like to think I'll leave somewhat of an impression, dear," Moriarty eyes the remains and smiles, "I imagine your phone looks somewhat like that too."

"Wouldn't think otherwise. Do you expect me to sit here and watch it take effect?"

"Yes," is Moriarty's simple answer, his voice already partially slurred, "It's why I invited you, after all."

"Interesting." Sherlock is still pretty much unfazed by all this, and just observes. "I should have remembered. You do like putting up a show, after all."

"Yes, a show-off, I recall you describing me before, dear. Now, Sherly, would you grant a dying man's wish?" Moriarty mumbled, his eyes slowly dragging down.

"That depends. What do you propose?" Sherlock still remains calm. The sight before him is certainly unsettling (especially how much Moriarty seems to be _enjoying_ this), but he is determined to not ruin the image Moriarty no doubt has of him.

"Well, you see, dear. You are the only man on this world capable of understanding me and therefore my only equal. I want to die with a kiss on my lips, Sherly-darling. How about it?" Moriarty quirks a weakened eyebrow up.

The suggestion alone is enough to make Sherlock cringe. "And why would I do that?" There could still be drops of the drug left in or on Moriarty's mouth. If there was even a drug in the first place and Moriarty is just pulling his leg.

"Oh, tut-tut, stop second-guessing me. I just want a kiss. It won't even mean anything to you," Moriarty rolls his eyes and licks his lips, "There - no residue. Besides, if any poison were potent enough to kill someone with such a little amount, I'd have died much earlier. You're such a worry-wort, Sherly. What is your answer, darling?"

"How much time have you got left?" The thought is still making Sherlock's skin crawl, as if Moriarty has just suggested he cut off his own arm to take with him into his grave.

"Oh, a few minutes, give or take some," Moriarty replies as if stating the weather, but the poison is obviously taking effect on him, his muscles have begun to loosen and you can tell that he is nearly struggling to keep upright in his chair.

"One more question before I reconsider." Sherlock bends forward, now at eye-level with Moriarty, their faces only inches apart. "I don't buy into this "you're my only equal"-rubbish. Give me a proper reason."

Moriarty manages to smile with what little control he has left, "You wouldn't believe me, even if I spelled it out for you."

Sherlock leans in closer. "Try me."

Moriarty leans in to whisper, his eyes wide with an indescribable emotion, "I-space-c-a-r-e-space-f-o-r-space-y-o-u-full-stop."

Sherlock's eyes widen; he was somewhat expecting this, but at the same time not at all. It's... strange. "And yet you constantly try to make my life a living hell." Moriarty's eyes aren't stinging anymore. Sherlock feels he can actually look into them now. "How pitiful."

"The only way you'd ever care to find me was if I did, darling," Moriarty whispers back, "I did what I had to."

"Sentiment," Sherlock says, his voice so deep he can feel his own body shudder with it. He can feel Moriarty's breath on his lips - it's disgustingly evident that it's a dying man's breath. "Never would have thought."

"You should've always thought, Sherly," Moriarty smiles, "So, what do you say, darling?"

"Sherly?" Moriarty asks again weakly.

Sherlock is momentarily at a loss for words. When Moriarty mouths his name the second time, he snaps back into reality, suddenly aware at how close his lips are to Moriarty's. "It won't exactly be pleasant."

"Not for you. Well, not that much for me either now really. I don't have much feeling. It's the thought that counts, Sherly-dear. I've been waiting for it," Moriarty replies, the warmth of Sherlock's breath in his face, the sweet smell of cigarettes and tea curling into his nostrils.

"Fine. Consider yourself lucky. I don't give these out often..." Reluctantly, Sherlock closes his eyes and leans in closer, desperately telling his mind to shut up about how disgusting this is.

With what little strength Moriarty has left, he leans forward as well, watching the absolute distaste on Sherlock's face. He's almost happy that his tear-ducts have numbed out and stopped working. Wouldn't be much of a memory to leave the most important man in his life. As their lips touch, Moriarty can't help but smile through their kiss; he'd always been waiting for this, ever since he'd first heard of Sherlock. His life accomplishment, achieved.

Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose at the contact, not having expected Moriarty's lips to be this cold just yet. Nevertheless, he lingers on, knowing it's Moriarty's last wish. 'Damn him,' he thinks. Through and through, Moriarty is an evil mastermind. There's no doubt about that.

A camera flashes, startling Sherlock and causing him to break kiss but not until after a picture has been taken. Moriarty gazes at him, adoring the expression on his face, taking the kiss with him to the grave, "I told you I'd leave you with an impression," he coughs, his eye lids drooping, his pulse slowing. In his hand is John's phone, which he had taken whilst Sherlock had been distracted.

His finger hovers over the enter/ok button.

Sherlock wipes his lips with his sleeve, distraught. "What the hell did you do?" It's a lost cause, since Moriarty is pretty much gone, but he can't risk it. He grabs the hand that has John's phone in it, struggling only slightly to get it back.

Moriarty's finger presses down just as Sherlock snatches it away, and a broken laugh escapes his loose mouth, his words are slurred, and half-formed, "Oops, Sherly-dear. I guess Johnny-boy is going to be getting a wonderful surprise when he checks his email, which will be in... about now. I couldn't have left you without a memory, darling. Sentiment, Sherlock Holmes. You should've always thought."

His chest rises in shallow breaths, a peaceful smile on his face, as his eyes take in one last view of the only man he could've ever cared for, "Had to make your life hell one more time to show that I cared, darling. I..." he coughs, blood spurting on his lips,"Love..." he takes one more gasp of breath, stubborn till the end, "You." And then with one solid blink, Jim Moriarty slips off in the the eternal slumber of death, always leaving chaos in his wake.

It's the first time anyone has ever uttered this phrase to him, and Sherlock could not be more horrified. He's unsure if he ever wants to hear it again. With a hand still clasped over his mouth, he just stares at the corpse before him, taking a few seconds before making sure his arch-nemesis is dead for good (something he had neglected to do the first time). He then looks at John's phone, and the photo. There is something bubbling in the pit of his stomach, and he leans back in his chair to catch his breath a bit. What the fuck just happened? He is seriously temped to call John's work phone in order to explain, but then remembers that his best friend doesn't even know he's alive. How in the world is he going to take this?

...

This evening had been... uneventful, but then again they all had been for the last three years. John Hamish Watson had acquired a normal job, doing normal things and almost had began to got used to a_ normal_ life. However, when he got home, after laying down his cane, and removing his shoes, as he rested in his chair, he couldn't help but be assaulted by memories that were definitely not normal.

There were memories that ached, memories that stung, but mostly memories that made his heart beat faster in anticipation, that made the limp in his leg disappear, that made him want Sherlock back. But Sherlock was gone, long since dead. The thought of his lost flat-mate made his mouth dry and he swallowed back the tears that nearly always accompanied such reminiscence. Instead, he turned his attention to more important things; like how they... he coughed, _he _was out of milk and what they-_ he_ was going to have for dinner.

And, however irritable it was, how it seemed that John had somehow misplaced his own damn phone. Ignoring this loss, John eyed the apartment trying to clear his thoughts. Apparently though, nothing was helping. His attention turned to the computer by his chair and he reached for it, rather lethargically.

With a sigh, he opened up his laptop and blinked as the beep of a new email greeted him. The sender confused him: honey-in-a-crown. His brows furrowed in concern as he clicked on the email, wondering if it was spam. Photo attached... Curious, John downloaded the attachment and it opened on his computer in a new browser.

What greeted him was blury, grainy and pixelated picture of two figures kissing - obviously a low definition phone photo. Against his better judgement and with a strange feeling coiling in his stomach, John pressed the zoom-in button. He nearly dropped the computer from his lap. No, to be more accurate his nearly flung the device into the wall beside him. John couldn't be sure if it was rage or shock which elicited this response in him.

However, he knew one thing - his entire being hurt. He throbbed with pain and confusion. For in that picture were the two people he had begun to hate more than anything else in his life. The man who took his best friend and his supposed best friend.

And they were kissing.

Unable to react in any sane way, John closed his laptop with a slow methodical movement and took a deep breath before opening it again. He checked the send date and the date printed on the photo itself, added digitally after the picture was taken. It had happened today. A few minutes ago. A strangled yell escaped his mouth as he gazed at the picture unable to tear his sight away.

The blonde doctor slammed his laptop closed and placed it back on the floor. Trying to organise his thoughts into something coherent, the only thing which managed to find it's way into legible words was - "He's alive." And for the moment, that was the only important thing, however much the importance was equal to the pain the words bore him.

Sherlock was alive.

...

It's not until the first raindrops of the evening drip on his face that Sherlock was snapped back into reality, out of his thoughts. He has been sitting on the rooftop for over three hours now, just thinking, contemplating his situation. Moreover, how John was going to take this shocking information. 'Surprise, I'm alive and I kissed my arch enemy as he was dying! Will you be my friend again?'

Sherlock shook his head pathetically (pathetic? Him?) and stood up, some parts of his body protesting, but he ignored them all the same. He eyed John's phone one last time, wondering if he should do something about that photo. Should he call? No. He couldn't. He wasn't even sure if John had changed home numbers.

Finally, he sighed and shoved the phone in his coat pocket, and steadily walked towards the stairs. There was no stopping it now. Surely John knew. Despite his sometimes simple mind, John was not a complete idiot; he would be able to piece two and two together and know that the photo was genuine.

He had to see him. Regardless of the risks, Sherlock simply had to see him. There was still an uncomfortable sinking feeling in his stomach (how? How was that even physically possible?) and he was certain that it was because he was thinking about John. So he had to.

...

It's raining outside, John noted idly, his eyes still open - it felt like he hadn't blinked for days. There were two emotions rolling around in him and they refused to let him rest or take a break from thinking. Anger mixed with a huge dose of complex grief and happiness tinged with hope. He couldn't decide which was worse.

...

Sherlock couldn't keep himself distant, that was for certain. He had tried all the way down, to calm himself, to think of reasonable analyses, anything to just get his mind off this whole business and to make his body stop acting up like it was. But nothing was working. It was actually frightful. Frightful!

By instinct, he hailed for a cab, but then remembered that he was supposed to be laying low, that he was 'dead'. Baker Street was so far away, though, and he wondered if he would even be able to reach it in time before John would surely go to sleep or something. Against every bit of judgement that was screaming at him to not do it, he waved, catching a cab sooner than he had anticipated. Looking down so his hair covered his eyes, and pulling his coat collar up in order to hide his distinct features he knew were recognizable, he slumped into the cab and muttered the address.

If Moriarty had broken John, if there was a chance that he had ruined their friendship, Sherlock's chance of ever returning... Sherlock couldn't think about it. He shook his head, forcing the thought out of his mind, and tried to focus on anything but John.

To no avail, of course.

...

On one hand, John was absolutely delighted that Sherlock was alive, even if it only gave him a chance to punch the bastard in the face. However, on the other... Sherlock being alive rocked the very foundations of life that he had built upon for the last three years. These two contradictory feelings stirred inside him and no matter what he did, from eating dinner to lying in bed and trying to sleep, his mind would not stop thinking.

As his brain drew closer and closer to an exhausted mentality, his imagination conjured tunes and melodies only his childhood had contained. It might've been a nightmare... or a wake-mare, but John was entirely sure that he was very aware of the sing-song thought that popped into his head when it came.

_"Sherlock and Moriarty, sitting on a roof, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes hate, then comes death and next comes John left all bereft."_

The picture of them both embracing like lovers, never left John's mind, not even for a second. It haunted him. Plagued him. Nausated him and... what concerned him the most and that which he hated the most... it made him hopeful. And that was what angered him the most.

Unable to sleep, he left his bed and sat, thinking, on his chair, fingers entwined and head lolled back. There would be no rest tonight.

...

The cab ride was starting to get torturous. Sherlock's brain was racing, but for once in his life, it wasn't looking for something to focus on or to analyze. Rather, it was as if it couldn't stop focusing. It was a new sort of feeling, an he wasn't sure if he particularly liked it. His stomach was starting to sting, and that plus his mind flying all over the place was actually making him nauseous. Why wouldn't the cabbie just drive faster?

He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to pic up John's phone again, if only to see that everything that night had actually happened. And then it hit him: how in the name of holy hell was he going to get out of having to explain to John where his phone was? And why it was there? Sherlock groaned in annoyance. Moriarty knew everything. Knew he wasn't good at small talk. That sentiment was a definite weakness. That this whole ordeal would surely break John emotionally. Well, more so than ever before.

And then, the cab stopped. Sherlock looked up in disbelief, but then decided that staying here thinking about how time had flown wasn't worth it. He hurriedly payed the cabbie and then stumbled out of it, losing his balance slightly as he did so. This was so unreal. He was losing all control because of this. With a huff, he repositioned himself and approached the front door, the stomach-sting becoming worse and worse with each step.

...

When the knock came at the door, John automatically assumed he was hearings things. When it repeated, he ignored it. Again it came and, irritated, John yelled, "No one is home!"

Three more thuds and then John had had it. First his phone, then the email and now this person rapping at his door at this Godless time of the night. He growled and stood, his limp pronounced in his steps as he approached the door.

"Go away, I don't want what you're selling," John picked up his cane as he came to the door and twisted the handle.

He held it across his chest in as near as threatening way as he could and pulled the door in, "I don't have the time for this, I have work tomorrow and-" his voice cut off as his eyes locked onto the man he was talking to.

"Who would want to be selling anything at this time of night?" Sherlock all but mumbled, looking down on his feet like an ashamed child. It was honestly the first thing that came into his mind. Not a greeting, not an apology, but a remark like that. He couldn't bear to look at John, knowing how much everything that had happened in the past hours must have shaken him.

There was nothing else. Not a single solitary thing came to his mind that he could say or do. Surely Moriarty had drugged him as well; otherwise he wouldn't be feeling like this. Right?

The emotion running across Sherlock's face was almost more than John could handle. The doctor blinked once, and cleared his throat, "Yes, you're right."

And then he slammed the door shut on him.

Sherlock didn't know what he had expected of John. Speechlessness? Shock? Anger? A punch or two? He wasn't sure, but it only now occurred to him that he had never thought that John would reject him like that. In hindsight, it was obvious. Sherlock had 'died' in front of him, and now, three years later, showed up on his doorstep after having supposedly run off to be with Moriarty. He shuddered at the thought.

Not sure if John was stilll behind the door, Sherlock prepared to knock again, wanting to at least return the phone before disappearing from John's life altogether. He hesitated, and instead pressed his forehead against the door.

"John," he said, a little louder than before, but still lower than the usual colloquial voice. "I know you're in there. Please open up." Begging. He was practically begging. Moriarty had definitely drugged him...

John had leaned his forehead against the door, his heart thundering in his chest as Sherlock's voice permeated through the wood, "John, I know you're in there. Please open up."

For a second, John was sickly amused. Sherlock begging. Fancy that. But then his facade shattered and he shouted, his voice hoarse as he tried to hold back all those damn emotions he had bottled up, "That picture. Is it real!"

Sherlock was torn between feeling relieved and feeling utterly miserable. John wasn't supposed to sound like that. Not that he had any idea what John was 'supposed' to sound like, but he was certain that this tone of voice, this desperation, not to mention how raw he sounded... It wasn't John.

He wanted to lie. He wanted to tell John that Moriarty had altered the photo somehow. That they had only been talking very closely and he had taken the photo without his knowledge (which was true) and then pressed them together in some sort of program. But he couldn't. He couldn't lie to John.

"Yes. It's real," he admitted, the sinking feeling in his stomach only increasing. He could have sworn he felt his fingers sting as well, but dismissed it as being because of the damp.

John swung the door open, tears of... well, definitely anger, of course, dripping from his eyes, "You... Sherlock," he took a breath to calm himself and violently wiped the tears from his face, "Ok. You're telling the truth, for once. Just... Don't say anything for a moment. And come inside. I think... I think we have to talk."

Sherlock nodded once, still not able to look directly at John. He could tell that he wasn't feeling well - the tears were a definite sign of that. He still wasn't sounding very 'John', but at least his voice was less hoarse. Still, it was wrong. So very wrong.

He carefully stepped inside, not making any sudden movements in case John was on the alert for anything suspicious. In the back of his mind, he marveled the fact that John had actually let him in almost without question. But the phrase 'we have to talk' was grating his brain. This wouldn't end well.

John had never thought those word would be uttered from his lips, countless times from girlfriends, but never from his. The common ground between the two different situations was currently lost on him. As he walked into his-_their_ apartment, he bit his bottom lip. When Sherlock walked in, the room felt complete again - as if something had been missing all along and now had only just returned.

It irritated John as equally as it filled him with something akin to joy. He gestured at Sherlock's chair, which had been kept in its spot precisely, "Sit."

The doctor watched Sherlock closely as the world's only consulting detective sat onto his chair. For a second, John wondered if Sherlock was alright, but he kicked away that thought. He was angry, he tried to recall, very angry with the man sitting opposite him.

"I suppose you know what I'm going to ask," John said, slowly, delicately, trying to ingrain all his twisted emotions into the words, trying to convey the hurt.

"There are several ideas that come to mind," Sherlock muttered, his deep voice practically echoing through the flat. "'How the hell are you alive?' 'Why would you leave?' 'Do you realize what you've done?' 'What are you doing here?' 'Where's my phone?'"

He paused, looking upwards only slightly to scan John's face. God, he looked awful. So stressed. So mangled. So pale. So very un-John. His 'death' had obviously brought John's limp back as well, if the usage of the cane was any indication. Which it was.

"Any of those sound correct?"

"All of them sound correct, Sherlock. Now. Answer them all, or so help me, I will punch you," John replied, his voice gravelly.

"Very well, but in reverse order," Sherlock said simply, and then finally managed to look properly at John's face. He needed to say all those things while looking at him right in the eyes, no matter how painful it was. Oh god, John's eyes looked so hurt. Everything about him looked hurt.

"I have your phone," he started, fishing John's phone in his pocket and handing it over. "I have been coming over here every now and then during your work hours just to check if everything is in order; if you're moving on. Today was a special case, as I saw you had received a text from my recently lost phone which Moriarty had taken. I couldn't not reply. I... apologize for that.

"I'm here to return it, obviously. I also wanted to see how you were. Knowing you had seen... that photo, I assumed you were now aware that I was alive, so I had no qualms about it. So here I am.

"It's not until now that I see how much my 'death' has affected you, John. As I mentioned, I only come here during your work hours, and to my understanding you were doing alright, if sinking into slight depression. But I never would have thought you were this miserable about it. I suppose I should apologize for that as well. And I am... sorry.

"I 'left' because at the time, Moriarty had snipers all over the place, preparing to shoot if I didn't die right then and there. I had seen it coming ever since he had planted the seed of doubt in everyone's mind about me, so I had taken precautions. Which brings me to how the hell I'm alive. I had help, obviously. A stress ball here, a blood bag there, plus a couple of people from my homeless network to distract you."

Sherlock paused momentarily, as if letting John speak, but then continued, wanting to expand on the reason why he 'left'. "He was going to kill you, John." He looked down again, the sting returning more than ever. "You, Mrs Hudson, Greg... Everyone..."

John's reply was silence. He sat there, taking it all in. And then he sighed, letting out a large breath of air. He sniffed once, wiped at his face and then closed his eyes.

"I see," were the two words he managed to work out of his mouth, as if prying boards loose from a roof.

Phone still in his hand, Sherlock placed it on the nearest reachable spot just to get rid of it and so John could see that he had no intention of keeping it. He then looked back up at John, the hurt in his voice piercing through him like a dagger. He wasn't sure if he was even welcome here. He had answered all of John's questions, the phone was returned, and John now knew he was alive, so really, everything had been taken care of, so to say.

It was too obvious, judging by John's expressions (or lack thereof), voice, and body language that he was feeling uncomfortable with Sherlock in the same room. Sherlock understood. He had practically prepared for this anyway. "Now," he began, and prepared to stand up. "I'll just be off, then. I won't bother you again."

John's eyes flashed open in alarm, his voice breaking as he spoke, "No, Sherlock. Just. Stay. I want to say something to you. Please, sit."

Rather off-put by the strange emotion in John's voice, he followed the doctor's command and sat again.

John attempted a smile, but it faltered and broke into something closer to grief-stricken smirk, "I missed you, Sherlock. I hated you for leaving, but I hated you even more for making me miss you. And I _will _hate you more than anything if you ever leave again without my say-so."

Sherlock felt his fingers sting again and his heartbeat grow a little faster than usual. For a few moments, he just sat there in silence and stared at John. He had missed him? Truly? Now that it had been said, all his intentions of leaving were properly shot down, and he sank a bit in his chair, trying to decide what to say next.

"I missed you as well," he said before his mind could even register where he was going with it. "It killed me that I couldn't tell you I was fine. That... I couldn't see you." His voice went deeper and deeper with each word, and he was starting to feel embarrassed by saying these things.

John waited, patiently, his serene mask a facade for how desperate he felt. He needed to hear these words, he needed this salve for his wounds. So, he leaned forward, displaying mediocre curiousity and nodded Sherlock on.

"And now I don't know what to do," he admitted, feeling more pathetic than ever in his life. "Everything is telling me to go away, to let you live your life, to not get involved with it again. All evidence is pointing towards it. But I don't want to. I _can't_. I know I'm not good with all this, but I can see you're hurt. I know it. And I know it's because of me. But if it is I who caused you all this pain, why would you still want me here?"

Sherlock rubbed his face with one hand, the stings and sinks and overall unpleasant feelings making everything much more difficult than it would have been if he had been able to just keep himself distant from it.

"Did you ever pause to think _why _you caused me so much pain, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice unusually restrained and disturbingly quiet.

"No, you really never did. Did you?" John's laughter was particularly harsh, "You're meant to be the genius, Sherlock. I'm just the idiot, remember?"

Sherlock froze for a second and then took the hand from his face, staring at John in disbelief. "You really think that's all you are to me."

"That's not what I was trying to say, Sherlock," John replied, his brows furrowed accompanying a scowl.

"That's what I can gather," Sherlock said, frowning. "You think you're just the idiot sidekick. That I have no respect for you. That you're just there as decoration." He paused for a second and then softened his expression. "I can only imagine why I caused you so much pain, if those are the assumptions you have about my feelings towards you. But to answer your question, no, I didn't think about it, because I always assumed you would manage without me. You're a strong man, John, and I didn't think you would need me in your life in order to cope."

Sherlock automatically bit his tongue. His mouth was flapping too fast, and his brain couldn't seem to manage to stop it or think things through. It's just flowing, thoughts and emotions spreading as if nothing can stop them.

"I'm a strong man?" John asked, his voice close to snapping.

"War survivor, able to hit a target a good distance away with your non-dominant hand, can run despite a limp that's not there, able to put up with Sherlock Holmes for two years... Yes. I'd say you were indeed a strong man," Sherlock replied, his expression softening more as he heard the slight surprise in John's voice. "And for what it's worth, you're not a complete idiot. In fact, perhaps not at all."

"So, you waited three years to tell me that, Sherlock?" John questioned, his tone sharp and dangerous, acid, "I have believed for three years that you were dead. I was almost tempted to join you for two of those years, Sherlock. I'm not that strong. I was never that strong."

"Join me..." The words circled around in Sherlock's brain before exploding into what they meant. "Oh God, John. You didn't- you couldn't-" Sherlock shook his head in order to get his thoughts straight. "Tell me you didn't, John."

"But then I'd be lying, Sherlock, and that's not what I do, unlike _some _people I know," John all but growled, the anger creeping back up inside him.

Sherlock kept on glaring at John, now certain that everything had been jossed. His return to Baker Street, coming back to John, living with him again, be _friends _again... It wasn't possible now. His stomach sank even lower, and Sherlock was certain that any minute now, he would feel it sliding down his legs.

"I... I'm-" he began, and then leaned forward a bit, elbows on his knees. "I am so sorry. Really. I didn't think it would affect you this much, honestly. I thought for sure you would be able to handle it. I never... dreamed you would be so hurt..."

"Sometimes, you really are selfish, aren't you, Sherlock?" his voice grating through his teeth, "Let me tell you a story. It's about a man. A doctor, actually, in the army. He saw hell, suffered, was injured and when he came back home he didn't know how to act anymore. This man was lost, Sherlock. Very, and pathetically lost. One day, he became aware of an apartment and a flat-mate who had decided to choose him. This flate-mate understood the doctor. He knew that the man was lost. And whilst he didn't bring him back to the same path, this flat-mate trod a new one for him. And stepped with him. The doctor, whilst never forgetting his past, began to love the new direction his life had taken. And then, all of the sudden, the flat-mate died and the path hit a dead-end."

"I was once a strong man, Sherlock, but when you walked that path with me, I no longer needed to be so strong. I had you. You gave me so much, and then you just... took it all away. In case you didn't get it, I am the doctor and you are the flat-mate, Sherlock," John's voice broke regularly as he spoke, pushing back the tears.

While John was speaking, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sprint out of his chair and hold John in a tight embrace. He truly, honestly didn't know John was this hurt. He knew he was hurt, certainly - any other assumption would have been severely idiotic - but not like this. Three years is a long time, and he had thought that John had gotten some kind of help if it had come to this much of a low.

His presence wasn't doing anything for John's current state. "John..." he managed, his mind drawing a blank as to how the hell he was supposed to make his friend (were they friends? Was he still John's friend?) feel better. "I never should have come here. I'm sorry."

"No, Sherlock. You should've never _left_," retorted John, wrapping his arms about himself, "And I told you. You're not leaving again."

"But I should. You're obviously not thrilled to see me," Sherlock replied simply, dropping his head down in defeat (yes. Defeat. He felt utterly _defeated_.) "And I told you, I left because you were about to be shot. It was to save you." He looked back up at John, the hurt glare he received making him feel like a dog being punished. "I just don't understand, John. You obviously loathe me for what I did to you, and yet you don't want me to go, even though me being here is clearly not good for you."

"This what normal people do, Sherlock. They talk things out. They compromise. I don't care if you think that you being here is not good for me. It is. This is the most emotion I've felt, for only God knows how long. These few moments with you where I'm yelling or angry has been thousand times better than the three numb years when you were gone," John finally snapped, his voice raising in pitch.

Sherlock raked his brain for a few seconds and then stood up. He noted John's sudden twitch in his own chair, but stopped him before he could say anything. "Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand up, John," Sherlock repeated, his tone stricter than he had intended.

John stood, the army man inside him replying to the demand, a frown on his face.

"Punch me," Sherlock demanded, meaning every word. "As hard as you can."

"What. No, I'm not going to punch you, Sherlock," John replied in instant rejection of the idea.

"Yes, you are. It'll make you feel better," Sherlock said, but really, he was just guessing. "You have a lot of bottled up rage, regret, depression. Let it out. As often as you must."

"I am _not _going to hit you, Sherlock," John snapped.

"Must I trigger you into it like last time?" Sherlock said darkly. John honestly didn't want to hurt him for all the pain he had caused him?

"You better not, Sherlock, I don't want to hit you! In fact, that's practically the opposite of what I want to do!" John almost yelled back, facing the man directly.

"Then what is it you want, John?" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm admitting defeat here! That I don't know! I don't understand! And so I'm asking, what the devil do you _want_?"

"I want you to stay! I want to talk with you! I want to solve cases with you! I want you back home! I want you here! I need you here, Sherlock. You're the only damn thing that makes sense anymore," John shouted back, equally as frustrated.

"Then what are you doing telling me about your self-harming and depression as if you want nothing but to be rid of me once and for all?" Sherlock took one step forward, intending to be intimidating, but ended up looking like he had lost his balance. "Why are you seeking out the one thing that may have once made your life better but has now shattered it again?"

"I'm trying to tell you how much you mean to me, Sherlock! Why is that so hard to get into your damn genius brain?" John yelled, taking a step forward and poking Sherlock in the forehead, repeatedly.

Sherlock yanked John's hand and pulled it away from his face, feeling the frustration boiling in his veins. They were shouting at each other now. Why couldn't John understand that Sherlock had to leave in order to make things better? Why was he insisting on him staying? "Because I don't understand why I would mean anything to you in the first place!"

"How could you not understand? You picked up the broken pieces of me and put them back together! How could you mean anything but the world to me?" John screamed, running his hands through his hair, almost tearing the strands out from frustration.

"Because I've never meant anything to anyone before, alright?" Sherlock yelled, wanting to shake John into just _understanding _this. "And I don't... I don't _get _you, John." He felt himself calm down at that, his friend's (?) words sinking in. "One person. Obviously broken. And you seek out for me." His anger had almost faded away now, but there was still that flicker of annoyance that John didn't understand that Sherlock Holmes was a nobody, or simply a tool to everyone, so why should he be any different?

"Of course, I seek out you! You're... I don't know, Sherlock. You're the only one who... I don't know how else to say anything! I... You are the most important person to me, I can't say it any clearer than that!" John knew he was shouting and that it wasn't helping, but it was the only thing he could do to release the intense emotion inside of him.

Sherlock observed John, took in his words, but was noticeably hurt by his anger now. "I don't know what to say either," he admitted, telling the honest truth. "And you know how hard it is for me to say I don't know things, or how difficult it is to render me speechless. And there you are. You've done it."

"Sherlock. I... that picture this morning. It broke me and healed me and you probably don't know why. I found out you were alive, after seeing you die, after seeing your blood, after testing your pulse, after attending your funeral, after being lost for three years. I found out the person I thought the world of... that he was alive. It shattered me too, Sherlock, because I realised that I must mean... nothing to you. That you would leave me for three years to rot. To sit at a dead-end, whilst you marched your own path. A path without me. And that's what hurt the most. Knowing that you had continued on without me."

Again, Sherlock said nothing. John doubted him this much. He seriously doubted him. "John, for the last three years I've been tracking Moriarty's network so that something like the Bart's incident won't have to happen again. It's been difficult to find every bit of it, but I managed." He paused, about to step a little closer, but decided against it since John was obviously still too upset to accept the closeness.

"What happened today, what you saw on the photo, is what means nothing to me. Moriarty..." he began, unsure of where to go with it, but decided to just say it: "Moriarty was in love with me. He killed himself today, and he wanted me to be the last thing he saw, and... _that _to be the last thing he did." Sherlock was quiet for a coupl of more seconds, and then: "You mean everything to me, John. Everything. Had I not jumped that day, had I seen you get shot, knowing it was because of me..." He trailed off, words becoming unintelligeble murmurs.

John was silent. He was speechless, really. No words could be said. The doctor blinked away the tears watering in his eyes, "Sherlock... I... I had, oh, god, Sherlock. I'm sorry. Damnit, I... I - fuck it, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I was just so blinded by my anger, that - god. I'm sorry. I - ." His head fell as he stared at the ground, shamed. His shoulders were slumped in defeat and in that moment you could see the man he had been for three years without Sherlock. Lost, defeated and... alone.

"Don't be sorry. You have every right to be angry with me. I never did tell you why it all happened, after all. And if I recall correctly, the last thing I said to you in person was 'alone protects me'," Sherlock said plainly. "To think you actually suspected I had managed to continue without you, John. After everything we've been through." Sherlock looked down on his feet again, every ounce of anger or frustration completely vanished.

John's expression can only be described with the word distraught. He looked bereft of any beliefs, like a shattered dream one thought to be real. He swallowed and once again, rubbed at his face, trying to regain some sense of normalcy.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I... I doubted you. But you were gone so long and... I was... Well, I was just me. Stupid Watson, who couldn't do a thing without you, whilst it looks like you could do everything without me. You destroyed Moriarty's network, you faked your death, you watched Moriarty die twice. And I... you never needed me, Sherlock," John felt like his heart was bleeding out emotions he'd forgotten.

John's words didn't make sense. He wasn't supposed to be saying something like this. Every word made the uncomfortable stings in Sherlock's body return, and he had to bite back a whimper when it started to physically hurt. "It looked that way, everything looks simple. You know that. And I'm aware that you couldn't have observed, but if you could have, you would have seen that it was so difficult. So, so diffucult without you." He looked up slowly, feeling like a child waiting to be beaten. "Of course I need you, John. Now more than ever, because I've seen what this has done to you. I need to see you, hear you, make sure you don't hurt yourself. I've never been a protecting type, not even for myself, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel protective of you right at this moment."

"I... god, Sherlock, if you speak like that it means you can't leave me ever again. It means that you'll tell me what you're thinking when you're thinking of doing something dangerous. It means that you'll have to need me as much as I need you," John was almost whispering when he finished, "It means that we walk the path together, Sherlock."

And now, finally, Sherlock dared to move a bit closer, if only because the utter desparation in John's voice made him want to glue himself to the man just to be sure neither of them would ever be apart. "I do need you. And I'm not leaving you again, not if it turns you into this... whatever it is I've turned you into." He gently placed his hands on John's shoulders, feeling the twitch in the other man's muscles as they touched. "I don't understand sentiment, John, and you know that. But I understand that you mean too much to me for me to ever leave. To ever let anything happen to you. I couldn't."

John's breath was slow when he released it, his expression unknowable, "Do you really mean that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock only nodded, his inexperience in this area shining through. He brushed his thumbs along John's collarbones (the spots he could reach, that is), and tightened his hold, wanting to make sure that John would get the right idea.

Almost without thought, John's hand reached up, laying itself over Sherlock's, his eyes staring deeply into the detective's, "I..." John took a breath, closing his eyes to think, his face down-cast. His words were soft, almost inaudible, "Sherlock, you promise, right?"

John's hands were warm, even through the obvious coldness that the doctor had had to lived through up until now. Sherlock couldn't stop his slight shiver when they touched; John's eyes weren't piercing anymore, there was something else there that Sherlock couldn't quite locate. "Of course I do," he then admitted, trying to send John some form of message to open his eyes - this wasn't something he felt was right to say to his eyelids.

"Thank god," sighed out John, his gratefulness steeped into every syllable, and it was very obvious he was not actually thanking any deity. His hand tightened over Sherlock's, feeling the warmth flowing from the raven-haired man to him and it took most of his will not to bring Sherlock's hand down and crush it tightly to his chest, to know that Sherlock was actually here and this wasn't all some sort of masochistic hallucination.

Sherlock only watched as he could practically feel the weight lift off of John's shoulders. The smaller man still had his eyes closed and had his head down - signs of relief, Sherlock deduced. When the doctor tightened his hold, Sherlock realized that his mind was going fuzzy, and the sting in his stomach was morphing into something else. It wasn't sinking anymore, but lifting. What was going on?

"John," he almost whispered, and then stepped even closer, needing to ensure John that he was there. "Look at me."

The blonde swallowed and glanced up, the sudden closeness of Sherlock catching him briefly off-guard, his heart beginning to thud very loudly beneath his breast. John met Sherlock's eyes, his mouth suddenly dry, "Yes, Sherlock?"

Perhaps this was a bad idea. Now that John's eyes weren't piercing anymore, they were so... warm, somehow. His gaze was full of confusion, longing, and something else that Sherlock still couldn't quite put his finger on. And because of all this, the moment their eyes met, Sherlock was rendered speechless once again. How many times had that happened in one night? Only John would be able to do this. Amazing John. Fantastic John. Extraordinary John.

"I don't want you to be hurt anymore," was the only thing that came out of Sherlock's mouth, even before he was able to analyze the situation more thoroughly.

And that was when John could not suppress the urge any longer, the pain in his flat-mates voice was more than he could handle. Without a second thought, John released Sherlock's hands and snaked his arms out behind him, pulling him into an all encompassing hug. He spoke into the detective's shoulder, "It wasn't _you_ that hurt me, Sherlock. It was the _absence_ of you."

At first, Sherlock was shocked at the sudden closeness, but quickly relaxed into the hug, wrapping his own arms around the doctor and resting his cheek on the top of his head. He still had no idea what was going on or why they had to be this close, but decided that he liked it. Very much, in fact. He could feel John's heart pounding rapidly against his chest, and soon his own was racing as well, creating an odd sort of rhythm between the two of them.

"I'm sorry," he said for the umpteenth time that night, closing his eyes and sort of nuzzling into John's hair.

"You're forgiven, Sherlock," John replied, his face pressed against the man's neck, his arms tightening subconsciously, never wanting to let go. Never wanting to forget this warmth, the feel of holding Sherlock, "Forever and always."

Sherlock's eyes shot open at that, but he didn't remove his cheek, not wanting to lose the connection. "Really?" He was honestly confused. Again, something only John would be able to do. "After everything you said earlier?"

John was silent for a moment before he managed to find the right words to reply. As he did, he tilted his head back to look Sherlock in the eye, "And what _did_ I say earlier, Sherlock? When did I ever say, for even a moment, that I hadn't forgiven you?"

Thinking back on what had been said, Sherlock realized that John had in fact never said anything of the contrary. "You didn't. I'm aware," he said, and then lifted his head from John's to look at him. "I just assumed you hadn't. What with everything I made you go through."

"Sherlock, I'd forgive you for burning down London, if you came back," John muttered, his eyes fierce, "I'd forgive you for destroying a country, if you returned. Hell, I'd even forgive you for blowing up the world. As long as you come back home, Sherlock, I _will _always forgive you."

Sherlock's breath hitched a bit. Oh God, what was John doing to him? His body was reacting very oddly to everything that was happening. "John..." he began, but then nothing else came to his mind. "John..." he said again, realizing how much he liked the name. How much he liked saying it.

John heard the tone in Sherlock's voice and had to check the man's facial expression to see if what his voice was conveying was what his actual emotion was. As John gauged Sherlock's reaction, he realised that the two things matched completely. It almost felt... almost sounded like... But no. Not possible. Denying the thought, John pulled Sherlock in closer, holding him tighter, feeling Sherlock's blood thrumming through his body.

John's warmth. Oh goodness, the warmth. Sherlock hadn't felt this kind of wamrth, kindness, since... since... Probably not since he was seven or eight and mummy had convinced him that his broken knee wasn't going to make the doctors cut his leg off. He closed his eyes again, suddenly so very aware of how close he was to John. His John. His John, whose heart was beating so fast he would surely pass out any minute now. But then again, Sherlock himself felt very similar.

"What's happening, John?" he had to ask, feeling slightly vulnerable at being the one having to ask questions. His mind simply could not grasp itself around the situation; what was happening, what made his body do this, and why he wasn't able to keep himself distant from it all.

He replied with silence, letting his lips rest near the jawline of Sherlock, breathing in Sherlock's scent. He found that his hands had creeped up Sherlock's back, now playing in his curly black hair. He was sure his heart was surely going to explode any moment. For a second, he just rested there, then he spoke, his top lip brushing ever so slightly against Sherlock's jaw, "I think I might have an idea, but I... I'm not sure I believe it."

Sherlock murmured something as a reaction to John touching his hair, the mere touch sending a surge of emotions down his spine and into his chest, not to mention his face. He held John tighter, certain that if he let go now, he would never get a chance to do this again. "You believe I'm back from the dead, and you believed me when I said Moriarty's little _offer _meant nothing to me," he said plainly, taking in every ounce of John possible. His scent, his warmth, his voice, his breath (on his neck, no less - oh, the shivers), his hands in his hair... "What's stopping you from believing anything now?"

When Sherlock's arms tightened around him, John felt secure; safer than he had in years. He thought deeply, not willing to let an answer fly out without a few moments pondering. He blinked, then met Sherlock's eyes, the words planned for response, his voice wavering in confusion, "You... me... Us. I just. I don't know if you're feeling... what I'm feeling... or even if the way we're both feeling can be defined by the word I'm thinking of. Oh, god, Sherlock. I want to believe it, but I don't know if it's true."

"I asked you what was happening, and I meant it," Sherlock repied and nuzzled into John's hair again. "I don't... I don't understand. I can't shrug it off, I can't make it go away, and I can't stop it. I don't understand sentiment, but I think it's what's happening to me right now. Pleasant and very, very unpleasant at the same time. Heart is racing, as you have probably gathered. Mind is fuzzy and feels like it's unable to focus on anything. Chest and stomach clenching and shifting and fluttering with every word you say, every breath you take."

He paused for a whole of two seconds before finishing: "I missed you. So much."

The word whispered from John's lips, no control over it, "Love."

His face instantly reddened, and he swallowed, "If anyone else had come to me and described the symptoms you just listed, I would've told them that they're fine, but they're just in love. Sherlock... I..." His ears felt extremely hot as he tried to continue, "Sherlock, I think I..." And then his tongue froze in place, unable to complete the three simple words.

Of course. Of _course_. It was so obvious now. The anger, the desperation, the hurt (oh God the hurt); everything John had shown signs of until now. It all came down to that. How had Sherlock not seen it before? How had he not seen the signs? They were all right there, plain in sight, and he had missed them. How?

Unless.

Unless it was because he had felt it too. He had, hadn't he? He had felt empty without his- without John. He had felt lonely, numb. Not being able to see him was torture in and of itself. And even today, at Moriarty's offer, Sherlock was disgusted not so much by the fact that it was Moriarty, but because it wasn't John.

He adjusted his posture a bit, so that he was now looking directly at John, not exactly hugging him, but his hold on his shoulders still tight enough to be intimate. "You what? What do you think?" Sherlock felt heat rush to his face as he asked, suddenly thinking about whether or not he was ready for this.

"God, Sherlock, I'm trying to say it, but it's so damn hard with you watching me so closely and you're still so near and my brain is muddling up and I really just want to say it, but you smell like home and I don't even know why, but I have this urge to remember you with every sense I have, from feel to taste and it's becoming so hard to think with my heart pumping a mile a minute. I don't know why it's so hard to say I love you, but it is and I do love you, but I just can't say it!" John managed to gurgle out, out of breath now and panting.

Sherlock was shocked, but it wasn't a bad kind of shock. Surprise, maybe? Yes, that was perhaps more accurate. After all, shock is generally not filed together with light-headedness, fingerstings and stomach leaps. All at once, Sherlock felt these things in his body, and it took all his strength not to whimper at the severity of it all. When his mind had finally calmed down and John's words had settled in, he grinned sweetly, pressing his forehead against John's.

"You just did."

John felt suddenly very faint-headed, "I just... I just did?" As the realisation dawned on him, his face became a remarkable shade of red, "I said it? I said I love you? I did. Oh, god, Sherlock. I think I do. I love you."

Would the warmth ever stop? And now it wasn't just John's, but also his own. Despite his insistence to never give in to basic bodily urges, Sherlock was certain that he would start sweating any minute now. He shook his head, cupping John's neck in his hands. "Don't think. Be certain. Make your own deduction. Just don't think. Don't assume."

John instinctively leaned towards Sherlock's hand, his eyelids slightly lowered, his gaze never shifting from Sherlock's face, "You're right. I love you, Sherlock. I love you more than anything I have ever loved before. You mean more than the world to me."

Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes stinging with- tears? No, surely not. Sherlock Holmes didn't cry this easily. Or maybe he did. Last time he had done so it was because he knew John had had to see him 'die'. Maybe it was another one of those things that only John Hamish Watson could do to him.

But those words. They were so unfamiliar, and yet hearing them coming from John made Sherlock's whole body ache with... What was it, happiness? Relief? Sadness? Shock? He wasn't sure. Nothing about this situation assured him of anything. It didn't make sense. He wasn't supposed to be hearing those words. Not sincerely. Not like this. Not from John.

"Remember what I said?" he all but whispered, managing somehow to fight back the sting in his eyes. "That I've never meant anything to anyone before?"

The only reply Sherlock received was John pulling him into another embrace, his arms held around the detective tightly, followed by the hesitant, but simple, "Yes, I remember."

The embrace sent another surge of emotion through Sherlock, and he was almost unaware of his own existence. Wrapping his arms tightly around the doctor, he clenched his fists around whatever fabric it was John was wearing (wool, maybe?), still fighting back the one thing he would not allow his body to do right now. Not like this.

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted, feeling his deep voice about to crack. "No one has ever said that to me before. You don't-" He sighed. "Yes you do. You understand. Surely."

John let out a breath, "Yes, I know what you're saying, Sherlock," A small smiled played on his lips, "And I'm almost glad that I'm the only one who has. I can have you all to myself. No competition."

Despite himself, Sherlock managed a small laugh, more high-pitched than it would have been in any other situation. "There was never any competition with you, John," he said, at last unable to avoid the inevitable crack. It was barely audible, but he could feel it too much to ignore it. "Amazing, fantastic John..."

"Amazing? Oh, god, Sherlock, I'm nowhere even close to you, you with your cheekbones and..." John trailed off, unable to continue with Sherlock's eyes on him. He looked to the ground, his cheeks hot, "I'm feeling an almost irresistable urge to kiss you, now."

"I know you're not," Sherlock said, attempting to bring some humour into the conversation (though needless to say, he had no idea what that was even about). "But you are, in your way. Extraordinary..." John's next sentence sent his heart fluttering even more than before, and he suddenly found himself taking shallow, nervous breaths, as if he was afraid.

"You... you would? After what you saw today?" He wasn't really looking for an answer to that. He just wasn't sure if he was ready for that kind of contact. Not with John, at least. With the little experience he had in that area, John was sure to brush him off and dismiss everything. Sherlock would never be able to even up to John's experties in these sorts of things.

"Well," John blushed with the ferocity of a few thousand suns, "To be honest, I was a bit jealous. And... and, well, I want to be the only one you share such... intimacies with from here on in."

Sherlock smiled. "Would it make you feel better if I said it wasn't intimate at all?"

"I don't care how you want to put it, I don't want you kissing other people," John growled, a possessive tone in his voice.

Unsure of what to think about John's tone of voice, Sherlck nevertheless tightened his hold on John. The possessiveness was strangely endearing, as if John felt just as protective of Sherlock as he was of him. "And I won't," he replied, and then released John a little just to be able to look him in the eyes. "I won't leave, I won't let anything bad happen to you, and I won't ever long for another person like this."

He dipped his head slightly, feeling embarrassed. "Please tell me you won't either."

John's mouth nearly dropped open in astonishment, "No! Of course not! That goes without saying, I couldn't possibly..." He cleared his throat, his brows furrowed in something akin to frustration, "I don't know why you'd think I would do that when I clearly said that you're the most important person in my life."

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's again, closing his eyes shut to block the tears. _Tears_, for goddness' sake! He shook, desperately resisting his bodily urge to break down right then and there. John was there, he would always be there. To think he had actually suspected that Sherlock would willingly leave him for three years and manage to move on without him. It was insane, really. Everything about this was insane. He would never be able to live wouth his- without John.

"I don't know either," he finally said, eyes still closed. "Thought I'd deleted all abandonment issues long ago."

"I don't think that's a thing you can really delete," John replied, all seriousness, but a smile tinged at the corner of his lips, "It's funny though, when you worry like that, Sherlock. You're so much more than people think you are, you know."

Before he was aware of the fact that he had done it, Sherlock sniffled, subconsciously tightening his hold on John. "People are irrelevant. They don't care. They will never be able to get me to open up like this, you know that."

John was taken aback by the honesty in Sherlock's voice and he blinked in surprise, a grin breaking out on his face, "I know, Sherlock. I know."

"You've seen me like this twice," Sherlock continued, almost as if he hadn't even heard John's reply. "That's two times more than anyone else has."

John swallowed back the emotion coiling up inside him and instead let a small satisfied noise, "And I hope that you'll feel... comfortable with me to let me see you like this again, Sherlock. I know you aren't emotionless and I know sometimes you hurt. So. This is what's going to happen. You're going to let me _see_ you, alright?"

"I'm not going to leave you again, if that's what you're getting at," Sherlock said, misunderstanding John's question entirely.

"No, I... Sherlock. You told me I'm the only who's seen you like this. And I want to see you like this whenever you feel like you are now... if that makes any sense," John moaned, his own mind winding over his words and not making any logical heads or tails of it either.

As if my a sheer miracle, Sherlock's mind started functioning properly again, if only for a couple of seconds. "Oh," he breathed at the realization. "Vulnerability."

"Yes! That!" John agreed instantly, glad that he had gotten through to him, "So, do you agree?"

"Only because it's you," Sherlock said, resisting the urge to cringe at how cheesy that sounded. And because of that, for once in his life, he wished his mind _hadn't _started working again. He sniffled again, now certain that he had never in his life been this vulnerable. "John..."

"Yes?" John breathed.

The words wouldn't come out, and Sherlock understood John's trouble from before.

"Sherlock?" the doctor whispered, hanging on Sherlock's every movement.

"John, I..." Sherlock opened his eyes finally, suddenly so aware of how difficult it was. He envied John, who had said it already. "I... I can't."

"Oh," John commented, wounded, but he cleared his throat and forced a smile, "Don't feel pressured to say it, Sherlock. It's alright."

"I don't," Sherlock admitted, and he really didn't. "But if I don't say it soon, I will explode. I'm turning into a wreck, John, simply because you're making me feel too much. I don't dislike it," he added when he could see a flicker of hurt appear in John's eyes again, "it's just... It's too much, John. I've never felt this much at once, and it's driving me bonkers."

John chuckled, the pain now gone, eased away by Sherlock's words, "I have somewhat of an idea what you're talking about." His fingers tapped along Sherlock's back, playing with his shirt.

"But you... You're much more experienced than I am," Sherlock continued, the fact that he had to say that making his face heat up. Jesus, would this ever stop? "Surely you know a way to repress it. To make it subside?"

John's grin widened and his face felt extremely hot when he replied, "I can think of a way, but it's not exactly... repressing anything. It make the feelings... less intense afterwards..."

Sherlock simply stared, and then remembered John's utterance from before. The thought alone didn't ease his emotions in the slightest. "You... you mean..."

"Oh!" John's jaw nearly hit the floor, "No! I didn't mean... unless you want to... god, what I am saying - I meant to say... we could, uhh, take some," He swallowed, "Ahem, some... steps there, if you want to."

At first, Sherlock was a little confused, unsure of why the idea of kissing was suddenly making John so nervous. He hadn't acted like that to his original proposal. He shifed a little, backing away a bit so he could take in John's expressions and movements. He was embarrassed, nervous, there were hints of both excitement and regret there as well. Sherlock swallowed, noting that the doctor's anxiety was actually spreading. He hadn't thought the idea of kissing him would make him this nervous, though.

"You must understand, John, that I'm not known to give these out often." He grimaced, recalling that he had said something very similar to Moriarty earlier that night prior to _his _offer. "And so I'm... not all that experienced." _I'm not good enough for you._

"It's not that, god, Sherlock. I don't care how experienced or anything like that. I thought... well, nevermind. I'd take a kiss on the cheek if you felt comfortable enough with that." John replied, over-whelmed by Sherlock's facial expression. _It's almost as if he looks doubtful_, John thought to himself, _and it makes me more to kiss him even more_. It made his face red and his fingers gripped onto Sherlock's shirt.

John actually wanted this, that much was certain. But how much? And would it matter if Sherlock didn't match up to John's expertise? He e looked down at John's hands for a brief moment, and then back up at his face, absorbing the emotion it conveyed. "I would be comfortable with it, but I... I don't think it'd be enough." _I don't want to disappoint you. _

"Not enough?" John coughed, his face red at the unknown implications that Sherlock was unknowingly saying, "Well, I, uhh, don't know what else... there is," He lied, trying very much to dodge any subject about... well, yes, and then the realisation struck him, "Oh. You want to kiss me on the lips."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, the heat in his face almost unbearable now. He had never felt like this before a kiss, this was pure _John_. "If, uh... If your offer still stands. That, um- that you still want to."

"By all means, Sherlock! Lay one on me," John replied with almost too much enthusiasm.

Sherlock startled, but then let out an exasperated laugh. "You seem excited enough." _Are you? Do you really want this? With me?_

John laughed, embarassed, his ears feeling very hot indeed, "Yes, I, uhh, am. Very much so. I would very much like it if you kissed me now. Mostly so your eyes will be closed and you won't see how red my face is right now."

"Okay." Sherlock smiled, trying to resist the urge to jump John then and there. He then licked his lips, completely unaware of the fact that it was like he was trying to make John more excited. Which he wasn't. He cupped John's jaw, noticing that his hands were trembling slightly; if that kiss wouldn't make it stop all these feelings, he didn't know what he would do with himself. He looked deep into John's eyes and just now saw how full of want they were. The iris was all but gone. "I still warn you, though, it probably won't be very pleasant."

"As long as it's you, Sherlock, it will be the best kiss I've ever had," John remarked, leaning into Sherlock's hand, his heart beginning to beat even faster, John's eyes were locked on Sherlock's lips and he was very aware of how much he wanted them against his own.

Sherlock breathed a small laugh, and then leaned in closer, brushing John's nose with his own. "Likewise, John." Oh god, the warmth...

John swallowed, nervous, his throat dry, as he closed the distance. When their lips touched, his eyes closed, and he smiled through the kiss. _Finally_. The warmth was dizzying and the scent of Sherlock filled John's mind; a faint scent of something chemical. For a moment, everything was Sherlock.

There was definitely a rush of heat the moment their lips so much as brushed, but nothing could have prepared Sherlock for the amount of emotion, tingles, shivers and shudders that surged through him when John pressed them closer, sealing the kiss. He almost whimpered, but managed to keep a hold of himself so as to not collapse on the floor. He tightened his hold on John, pressing him closer, wanting to remember everything about this one moment. Goodness, John's lips were so soft and warm against his own, nothing like he had pictured in his mind. Better, even.

John's hands grabbed at Sherlock's shirt, stretching it, trying to pull him closer and tighter, and then when he was satisfied by their proximity, one of them strayed upwards to caress the back of Sherlock's head, his fingers running through the detective's black curls. Sherlock felt so good against him, he didn't want this to end.

Was everything about John soft? His lips were soft, his skin was soft, his hands were soft, his breathing was soft. Sherlock made a mental note to collect data on this later but for now he decided to focus primarily on what he was doing right now. He needed this kiss to be as good for John as it was for him. He _needed _to be good enough.

Sherlock put more passion into the kiss, more emotion, trying to tell John with actions what he honestly couldn't tell him with words - and Sherlock Holmes was bloody good with words. He shivered the longer the kiss lingered, his hands clasping John's jaw and neck tighter. Now was definitely not the time for his knees to give in...

John felt weak, the kiss almost causing him to lose consciousness because it drew everything from him (but he was very sure he liked this feeling), and out of breath, his heart palpitating loudly and thrumming in his own ears. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Sherlock's and John couldn't take it anymore, even though he wished he could. He broke from the kiss, breathing hard and looping his arms around Sherlock's neck, his lips resting against Sherlock's jaw.

As intense and emotionally powerful as the kiss was, letting go of it was even more difficult somehow. Sherlock had to take a moment to breathe. It was too much to handle, even for him. But oh. Oh! John's lips were still technically on him, and it made him grab the smaller man's torso, ensuring that they were still close. Sherlock leaned into John, allowing the chaste kisses on his jaw.

John, still breathing hard, smiled, "And you said you were inexperienced."

"So it was... okay?" Sherlock had to ask. John couldn't possibly mean it in the way he thought he did.

"_Okay_?" John asked, his voice incredulous, "Sherlock, it was bloody perfect."

Sherlock held John's body even closer (if that was even possible), and just breathed for a few seconds, unsure of what to say now. "John..." he almost whispered. It seemed to be the only word in existence.

Sherlock's voice made John's body tingle and he laid his cheek against the detective's, "God, Sherlock, I love you."

There it was again. Those three words. He'd heard them multiple times tonight, but he still wasn't used to them, especially not from John. Extraordinary John, whom he didn't even deserve after what he had done to him. He moved his arms up to John's shoulders, where they wrapped around him tightly, and buried his face in the crook of John's neck. His voice was muffled as he spoke, but the message was clear, even though he was barely even aware of what he was saying:

"I love you too."

John nearly melted, or at least felt like he was going to, the words hot and targeted straight at his heart, "Sherlock... " he swallowed, and then he kissed Sherlock lightly on his lips, barely even touching, the slightest of warmth trading, as he murmured, "I feels like I've been waiting my whole life to hear those words from you."

"I feel like nobody has deserved to hear them from me until now," Sherlock mumbled, still processing what had just happened. He had said it. Three (well, four) words that he never expected to utter or even mean as much as he did. It was real. The emotion was so real and the words were so true. "But... it's true. I do. I love you, John. So much." He was getting the hang of it now; it was becoming easier to say it as it happened more often. Well, it had only happened twice, but there were no more stutters or hesitations. Just the simple phrase. "I love you."

Everytime Sherlock said the words, ecstasy flowed through John and he felt like he was on a high. Everything seemed brighter, felt more solid and the tears that began to water in the doctor's eyes were from the absolute delight of the moment. The words still rang clearly in his mind and he stored them away, every dip and rise of Sherlock's emotions, as one of his most important memories. And he would always treasure it for the precious miracle it was.

Then something clicked in John's head and he blinked, his mouth dry, "When I was at the cemetary... I... I asked you to perform one more miracle, Sherlock... You heard me, didn't you?"

Snapping out of his momentary emotional high because of the confession, Sherlock looked at John, curiosity in his eyes. Why was John bringing this up now? He nodded. "Yes. I did. And everything you said prior." _And it has been engraved in my mind ever since_. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you did it. For once you listened to me," John smiled.

"I'd just 'died', John," Sherlock said, almost insulted, but he knew John meant it in a good way. "And you were visiting my grave for the first time after the funeral. Of course I listened. Whatever you said at that point would be personal, something you only would have said if I disappeared, left, or yes, died. I knew that much." He paused, turning away from John's smile (was it always so beautiful?) for a moment before continuing. "I just didn't think you would outright beg for me to still be alive."

And then it hit him. John wasn't talking about literally hearing him or listening to him; he was talking about the 'miracle'. Sherlock stared back at John, a bubbling sensation threatening to burst out of his chest and stomach, his heart hammering. "Miracle," he breathed. "'One more miracle, Sherlock, for me'." Normally, Sherlock Holmes hated repetitions and obvious references, but somehow stating John's words from all those years ago made him feel... pleasant.

"Of course, you... Sherlock, you're amazing. And I have you all to myself," John grinned, the expression reaching his eyes, "I love you, Sherlock. I don't know when it started, but, god, if I ever have to live without you again, I don't think I'd last."

"You won't have to," Sherlock all but whispered. "I won't allow it. And if anybody tries to take you away from me, I will personally see to it that they die a slow painful death." It was a harsh statement given what had just been discussed, but he couldn't help saying it. He needed John to know how much he needed him, his presence, his... everything. He then grinned. "And if I have to 'die' again, I'm taking you with me. I've learned that I'd much rather be on the run with you than spy on the flat for three years just to see that you're still alive."

John was silent and it spoke much more than words would ever have. His silence told of how profoundly this statement had affected him. How much he was commiting it to memory; every word. How he lingered on them. Replayed them. Loved them. God, he loved them. He closed his eyes and felt every muscle in his body relax, paying more attention to the feel of Sherlock against him. Everything about this moment was perfect.

"I'll keep you to your word, you know," John murmured.

"As always," Sherlock breathed, softly caressing John's back, feeling the tension leave his body. "And make sure I keep you in on whatever it is I end up doing, alright? Because I just _know _I'm going to forget that promise eventually due to either excitement or worry of losing you. So remind me of what I said. That no matter the danger, possible consequences or risks, I want you there with me."

John laughed a little, "It almost sounds as if you're proposing to me, but, of course I will. When have I ever failed to nag at you?"

Sherlock breathed a small laugh as well, loving the sound of John's amusement. "Don't be stupid, John," he said plainly. "Proposals don't come after three years of death, and even if they did, it's not legal." He then paused to brush John's face with the back of his fingers, gazing into his eyes. "And your nagging is the only nagging I can tolerate."

"I'm glad for that then," John grinned, the smile crinkling at the edge of his eyes, showing true joy, "I missed you and your mind, you know. I never really liked having a normal life and you, Sherlock, are anything but normal."

Processing John's face, Sherlock could tell that everything he was saying was genuine. He meant every word, and it was blissful for Sherlock to have proof of it. He took a step backwards, releasing himself from the embrace, but kept on holding on to John's arms, still examining his face and expression. "Normal is boring," he said and planted a chaste kiss on John's forehead, "and if time spent with me is not normal, thus not boring, then I'm willing to give you all the time I have."

"All of it?" John breathed, suddenly taken by the magnitude of what Sherlock was saying.

Sherlock grinned teasingly. "Be reasonable," he said and pinched the smaller man's nose. "Of course I won't literally give you every single second of my life - you'd get sick of me eventually. Besides, you have a job and we both need sleep, boring as it is. But I guarantee that in both circumstances, given that we're apart at the time, you'll always be on my mind." He pointed to his own head, his teasing grin turning into a soft smile now. "I've had a folder for you in here for years, you know."

"Yes, I figured so," John laughed back, and then leaned his head onto Sherlock's shoulder, "I... Can we..." His face went visibly red, "When we do sleep... can... Can we...?"

Entirely unfazed, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still holding John's arms. John fit weirdly well where he was, almost as if Sherlock's shoulder (and entire body, in fact) had been carved specifically for him. "Can we... what?"

John's face very much resembled a boiled beetroot. He cleared his throat, "Ahem, when we sleep, can we..." he choked on his words, "Can we... sleep in... ahem," he spoke the next few words at such a fast pace, it hardly seemed like they were separate, "Sleepintthesamebed?"

For a moment, Sherlock almost rolled his eyes and wanted to scold John for being so cryptic. Hell, he barely even managed to register the... word? that eventually came out of his mouth. Luckily for him, Sherlock's brain was used to making out fast-paced utterances. Even more luckily for him, the utterance was so wonderfully _John _that Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. "I assumed that would be the next step, yes," he replied, rubbing John's arms. "Although I can't imagine why the thought of it would make you this uncomfortable."

He was lying, of course. The very idea of sharing a bed with John was slowly making his own body flutter again, in anticipation it seemed. It wasn't that he didn't want to - quite the contrary, actually - it was just that it felt strange. To think he had only just come back from the dead earlier tonight, and now they were talking about sharing a bed. Sherlock brushed his lips against John's forehead, not quite kissing him, and stayed there for a few seconds.

"And I'm assuming you were able to see through that blatant lie, so disregard that," he said simply, his words slightly muffled. "Don't take this the wrong way, and don't expect me to say it again, but I'm terrified too."

"Not that we have to do anything, you know," John coughed, still blushing, but very reassured by Sherlock's voice and the way he lingered to close to him, "I just... it's sort of stupid, but I just want to... hold you so that when I wake up, I know you're actually still going to be there. That," he felt his throat tightening, "That this isn't just all some crazy dream. I know you promised to never leave again, but that's just what I'd want you to do if this were a dream. That've I made you do in so many dreams. And," his voice broke, and he cleared it, his hold on Sherlock tightening subconsciously, "And when I wake up, thinking you're still there with me... you never are. And Sherlock... it hurts."

Sherlock didn't have to listen to the words; he could _feel _the hurt. (How could he possibly feel another person's hurt? That's just ridiculous!) John had sounded hurt too many times tonight, and it was starting to ache. To think that he would actually have dreams of this very same thing, only to be horribly disappointed in the morning. It almost made Sherlock want to tear out his hair. Almost. It wasn't so much the fact that he didn't understand - ooh how he did, after all this time - but just the fact that this had possibly happened to John multiple times in the last three years. Seeing a hallucination of some sort, or having a dream of finally reuniting like this, only for the hopes to be shattered once he either came to his senses or woke up.

Almost subconsciously, Sherlock kissed John's forehead again, but kept his lips pressed against it like before. "I will be," he practically whispered. "I'll be there." And now he was repeating himself too. What a night.

The feel of Sherlock's lips against his forehead was the only reason he believed the words coming from the detective's mouth. Words, he decided, he could make Sherlock say in dreams, kisses were possible too, but the sensation, the feel, the very touch of Sherlock had a uniqueness about it, that John realised he'd never been able to recapture in his dreams. Sherlock's warmth, his breath, the way John could feel his pulse through their embrace. This was real. And even if it wasn't... this was the best dream he'd had so far. One he never wanted to wake from, if that was the case. Because against all odds Sherlock was back and... And Sherlock loved him.

"Good," John replied.

There was a brief silence, in which Sherlock's mind decided to think outside what was happening right now, and he was able to see the two of them from another perspective, so to speak. He huffed a small laugh, and then nuzzled his cheek where his lips had been. "John, this is stupid."

John blinked in surprise, meeting Sherlock's eyes, "What is?"

"We've been standing here for over two hours, approximately," Sherlock replied plainly, as if he was just stating the weather, "it's getting dark, you still have some minor doubts of my existence, and I bloody kissed Moriarty before he killed himself. It's all just so stupid. Everything."

The doctor shocked himself by chuckling, overly amused by the situation, as if suddenly realising just how ridiculous it all was, "You're right, Sherlock, it really is stupid," and then once he began laughing again, he realised he really couldn't stop, "It's _so _stupid," he paused to take a breath, "And the stupidest thing is, that somehow, I wouldn't want it any other way."

Sherlock grinned despite himself, absolutely loving, adoring the sound of John's laugh. That high-pitched chuckle he had grown to miss so much. "This whole situation isn't exactly very normal, especially given the circumstances and backstories," he said, choking on a giggle. A _giggle_! "But then again, like I said, normal is boring, and we've both been known for being anything but normal. Correct?"

John nodded in agreement, a large smile stretched over his face, "Correct, most definitely. And you know, even though it's been over two hours, I still don't want to let you go."

Feeling a slight tingle in his stomach, Sherlock smiled back at John, deciding that no matter the difficulties that they might have to face in the future, he would always try to make John smile like that. "Likewise." He pressed their foreheads together for the umpteenth time that night and closed his eyes. "I suppose we're stuck here for another hour, then. Or whenever you decide that you want to - _ugh _- sleep."

John couldn't help but raise an eyebrow, "What's the 'ugh' about?"

"Sleeping is boring, John," Sherlock said mockingly, but still smiling. "It gets in the way of thought processes, not to mention that it's a sign that the mind is giving up on keeping the body awake. But I think in your case, I'm likely to make an exception. And maybe I could watch you. You know, collect data on REM and such," he added in a half-teasing, half-serious tone.

The doctor blushed, but retorted, his voice stern - as if dealing with a patient, "Sleep may be boring, but it looks as though you haven't had any for weeks. So, when we stop... this, we're both going to bed and we're both going to sleep, Sherlock. Together; no not sleeping."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. "Fine, but now that I've had that inception, there's no stopping me watching you sleep some day," he said, trying very hard not to grin. "Besides-" he kissed John - "you're always more tired than I am. It's only fair I get to at least watch you drift off before I fall asleep myself."

The kiss shut John up fairly well, any protests dying on his tongue, and his smile softened, "Deal; when you're well-rested again, you can... well, watch me fall asleep first."

Sherlock felt the familiar thrill of victory, but it was so light and so dull that he barely even registered it. "I love you..." he breathed, almost lazily, and suddenly the phrase was the most comfortable and natural thing to say in the world.

The words never failed to make John well up with joy, and yes, he knew the thought was cliche, but that was the only way to describe it. Sherlock saying those three words... made the world a better place. Overcome with what could only be love, John kissed Sherlock on the cheek, "And I will always love you."

The corniness of John's statement almost made Sherlock cringe, but because it was so very _John_, he couldn't help but grin. But oh, the phrase. The words. Hearing John say them. Repititions were uninteresting and unnecessary, but for some reason, Sherlock didn't mind hearing John say that over and over again. "And let me guess, you always have?" he had to say, just to keep from getting too sentimental.

John's burst of laughter almost made Sherlock flinch, "God, no! But I was in awe of you. And that quickly turned into fascination. But then I... I don't know. I came to know you. I suppose that's when I fell in love with you, Sherlock, inadvertently, of course."

"Yes, well, I'm known to do that to people," Sherlock replied. "Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, Jim Moriarty... I'm sure there are others I didn't bother finding out about as well. And here you are, the only person of the bunch who never admitted anything. It's actually a curious case, isn't it? How everybody was flirting with me and yet I settle for the one who never said anything up until now? Hm. Maybe I can work on that some time..." He suddely realised he was babbling, and turned back to John.

"Regardless, the feeling is mutual. I always assumed you were just another boring person who would eventually get sick of living with me. And then you just had to prove your worth by killing a man. Genius. Well, not 'genius', per se, but very much _not _ordinary."

"And here I was thinking it was you who made me like that," John replied with a teasing smile, "Besides, you were doing something dangerous. I couldn't have just let you... risk your life like that. Not after the ride you took me on that day."

_Of course not_, Sherlock didn't say, but he grinned all the same. He thought back to that case, their first case, and took a moment to wrap his mind around the fact that it had been almost five years. "You know I knew you'd come after me. There was no risk."

"You couldn't have possible known, Sherlock. I saw the shock on your face just as clearly as you felt it, when you realised I'd been the one to pull the trigger," John snorted, his eyes unfocused as he let the memories draw him back.

"Beautiful performance, wasn't it?" Sherlock said, still grinning, as if to tease John. When his words resulted in a dangerous glare from the doctor, he couldn't help but let out a full-blown laugh.

"You, sir, are a liar and a thief," John grinned back, enjoying the man's laughter as it hummed through their physical contact.

"And you love me anyway," Sherlock said through his chuckles, his face suddenly screwed up in a playful smirk.

"Yes, yes, I do," John replied, tightening his hold on Sherlock.

Sherlock loved this. He absolutely loved this. He had never been particularly caring or affectionate; that was for ordinary, normal people. But this, standing in the middle of their (yes, their) living room, holding John as if for dear life, saying sentimental nonsense and laughing with him... This was amazing. He wondered if he would ever be able to let go, now that he knew what it was like to hold his John like this.

"And I, you." Sherlock relaxed, all amusement completely gone. This was serious. Important. It was _important _that John knew how much he cared. If that meant that he had to succumb to the annoying habit of repetition, then he was willing to make that sacrifice.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Sherlock," John sighed back, absorbing everything about the detective in his arms, "You know, hearing you say it once would've been enough to keep me happy for a lifetime. If you keep repeating yourself, you might find that you've extended my life estimate considerably."

Sherlock couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at that. "Yes, I suppose so." He smiled at John, wondering if the doctor understood the amount of emotion he felt towards him. This wasn't something a run-of-the-mill three-word phrase could convey. He would probably have to show it in other ways as well in the future. But for now... "Speaking of time, have you any idea what time it is?"

John blinked, and he frowned in an almost pouty way, "Do you really need to know?"

"Not really," Sherlock admitted and shrugged. He had to make an effort not to look at John's face in order not to laugh again. "It just occurred to me that we've been standing here for quite a while, and since it was relatively late in the evening when I arrived, I can only assume it's at least going on midnight." He dared to look back at John, and smiled. "And you did propose we share a bed. I would... like to try that. Even if we won't sleep for another three hours."

"Well, when you put it like that," he was unable to smother the grin on his face.

Sherlock hoped that John would never stop that; looking so happy, even if it was covered up with smugness at the moment. "I'm guessing my room has been turned into some kind of storage, given the fact that I've been away for three years," he said, refraining from using the word 'dead'. "So... yours?"

John was silent for a moment, and the smile faded from his face, "I never had the heart to step into your room. Ha. But I suppose it's all dusty now, so my room is still really the only option."

"I would have wanted that option either way," Sherlock replied and gave John a quick kiss before parting away from him. Wow. He could still feel John's warmth even when he wasn't touching him. Odd. "Shall we?" he said, gesturing to the stairs.

John nodded, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, "We shall."

Sherlock smiled and grabbed John's hand, wanting some contact again, if only the simplest kind. He then pulled (practically dragged) John out of the living room and up the stairs, possibly more enthusiastic about sharing a bed with John than he should be. When they reached the door, however, Sherlock suddenly froze, as if something was telling him this wasn't his place, that he had no business to barge in even with John only inches away.

John stretched out hand over the top of Sherlock's, giving it a gentle squeeze, then helping Sherlock to twist the handle, "Welcome to my humble abode."

Sherlock's frozen stance was only broken due to John's warm (_warm_! Everything about him was so goddamn _warm_!) touch, but he almost went right back into it when the door opened. The room was small, that much he knew, but he could not get over how much it smelled, felt, and looked of John. His mouth fell open slightly as they stepped inside and he took in every detail about the place. Every little mess, every dust spot, every carefully brushed space, every article of clothing... Everything. He had to take in everything about John.

His eyes darted to the bed, which was surprisingly neat given John's state earlier tonight (and for three years). Despite himself, he started shaking a bit. It was hardly noticeable, but it was there. Why? Was his body afraid? His mind certainly wasn't.

John's eyes, however tired, still noted the miniscule movements of Sherlock's body, his smile growing. Sherlock... nervous? How very... human. John nodded at his bed, "Pick a side."

Shaking his head to remove all illusion of him being nervous (because he _wasn't_, thank you very much), Sherlock cleared his throat. "I prefer the wall side myself, but-" He eyed John, who was looking at him in a way that said 'I said _you _pick a side', and decided that John's opinion about something as stupidly trivial as sides of the bed wasn't important. Not now, at least. "Yes. Wall."

"Ah," was John's simple reply, eyeing the bed.

John wasn't moving, but their hands were still linked. Sherlock felt some kind of heat creep up to his face and he cleared his throat again as he removed his shoes. This wasn't difficult. It was one of the most basic things he could think of: remove any extra clothing in order not to suffocate from heat and then crawl under the covers. It shouldn't have been this hard, especially given the fact that the two of them had spent over two hours completely wrapped in one another. How would that in a bed be any different?

John, who was already in pajamas, walked slowly to the bed and sat on the edge, dragging Sherlock with him, he swallowed, "This feels... almost odd, doesn't it?"

Sherlock dropped down on the bed bedside John and tried to smile. "Almost," he said. "But logically, it shouldn't be. Not after the past hours, at least." He wondered if his nervousness (oh for Christ's sake) was showing. John had never been particularly observant of such things, but surely even he would be able to tell he was slightly uneasy. Sherlock squeezed John's hand so as to not do anything stupid like tremble or something. He didn't understand why this was making him feel this way. He wanted this. He wanted to share a bed with John. So why was it so difficult?

John gazed at Sherlock, gauging his reaction and smiled at the small tic in his flat-mate's expression, "We can not... if you don't want to."

"No," Sherlock said too quickly. "No, I- I want to. I'm just new to this sort of thing. You know how it is with me." He swallowed, and since it was John he was talking to and not someone else, he decided it was okay to continue with what was on his mind. "I'm unsure of... how to continue."

"Well, when a person goes to bed, they usually lie down, so... we can start there, alright?" John smiled, running his thumb over the top of Sherlock's hand, trying to comfort him, "I'll go first."

The doctor then proceeded to do exactly as he said, releasing Sherlock's hand and reclining onto the bed, patiently waiting for his... partner (the thought almost made John blush) to join him. As he watched, his mind boggled over the sheer impossibility of the situation.

Sherlock and him were about to sleep in the same bed after three years of seperation. John wasn't sure what was more impossible; Sherlock returning or Sherlock loving him back. It all seemed so... so perfect. Something John was unused to. Something... something that John would cherish forever.

Sherlock just watched John lie down, and actually found himself having to take a few deep breaths before he did the same. He just lay on his back and looked at the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He wanted to turn to his side to face John, but something pulled him back from it. As if the smaller man would flinch or move away or something if he did. So he stayed still.

John rolled onto his side, propping his head up with an arm, gazing at Sherlock; his body was tensed - an animal poised for flight. The image made John smile and he reached a hand up to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing him gently, "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

Almost flinching himself at the touch, Sherlock sharply turned his head to look at John. Oh thank God. He wasn't worried or anything. He was still being his usual, endearing self. That alone eased Sherlock more than he could hope for. He smiled. "Yes. Yes, I'm... I'm fine." He relaxed into John's touch, finally content where he was.

John felt the tension ease out of Sherlock, and felt a tad bit more courageous, edging himself closer, so that his midsection was almost touching Sherlock's side, and he leant his head forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock could feel his body shiver in anticipation, longing for John's warmth against him again. He inched closer, and then decided to simply roll on his side, so he was now facing John. Their foreheads were now pressed together (honestly, how many times had they done that tonight?) and Sherlock smiled tenderly. "Look at you."

"I don't think that's possible," John grinned as he carefully reached up a hand between them to play with Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into the touch. "You know what I mean," he murmured, feeling so at ease that he actually considered giving into sleep. "Beautiful..." he mumbled incoherently.

John's face went red as he managed to stammer back, "Hardly."

"Hm? Hardly what?" Sherlock said sleepily - sleepily? Oh God, he really was giving into sleep, wasn't he? And then his face fell. "Oh. I said that out loud, did I?"

"You did, you sleepy-head," John replied, easing his arms around Sherlock and snuggling in closer to him, resting his head now against his collarbone, mumbling into his body, "You're much more spectacular than me, any day, Sherlock."

"Mmm... I'm not sleepy," Sherlock said, furrowing his brow and folding his arms against his body in order to get as close to John as possible. "And shut up, you stupid John. You're-" he yawned - _yawned_, for Christ's sake! "amazing... Extrordnry..."

"Uh-huh, sure you aren't tired," John humoured the detective, past the point of being embarassed by Sherlock's half mumured compliments, smiling as he laid a gentle kiss on the man's neck, "And you, sir, are amazing."

Sherlock only hummed in response, not able to stop himself from smiling. "Johnnn... Sleep's boring..." He really didn't want to sleep now. He wanted to stay awake, the whole night if necessary, just to get used to John being so close to him. He needed to study every inch of John now, needed to find out what he liked, what made him laugh or just smile. He just needed to know more. He had never been this close to another person, both physically and mentally, so it was important to know these kinds of things.

_Not now_, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. _You're both tired now - yes, you too, don't deny it - so just enjoy the moment. John will still be there in the morning, don't worry_.

Sherlock subconsciously scooted even closer, curling up against John, wanting to feel his warmth, to know he was there. "Stay..." he mumbled into John's chest.

"Oh, don't worry, Sherlock. I'm never going anywhere," John whispered, feeling the sudden exhaustion settling deep into his bones and it wasn't long before his eyelids began dragging themselves down.

As he succumbed to the warmth, he laid one gentle kiss onto Sherlock's brow, "I missed you, Sherlock. Never leave me either..." his voice began to slip as the soft tendrils of sleep claimed him, and he leant into his partner, "I love... you... so much."

Oh John. Kind, wonderful John. Why would he think Sherlock would ever want to leave him now? Ridiculous. "Never would've thunk it..." he whispered, ignoring his grating grammar mistake, dismissing it for being a part of his sudden fatigue. He bit his lip as John's second utterance flooded his brain, reminding himself that this was where he was supposed to be.

This was perfect. Just lying there with his John, allowing himself to give in to the fatigue that was slowly taking over his body. He couldn't feel his legs anymore. Obviously, his body was falling asleep. "You mean... everything... t'me." The world around him faded, and he managed just two more words before his brain gave up on keeping him awake. "Love... you..."

As his consciousness faded, the last two words like a lullaby, John's eyes closed completely, mumbling forth the very first words he said to Sherlock when they had reunited that very same night, "Yes... you're right..." And then added sounds that began to fade off with each breath he took, "Yeww... arrr... my..." He yawned, "Weerld."

Finally, John was gone, slipping off to the land of slumber.


End file.
